


he loves you, he loves you not

by RedLipped



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Angst, Fake AH Crew, GTA AU, Kidnapping, M/M, Mild torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 21:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4364636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedLipped/pseuds/RedLipped
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a mission goes wrong, Gavin is kidnapped. Michael is too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he loves you, he loves you not

**Author's Note:**

> sorry, my heart hurts.

**Day 3.**

Within a dimly lit, cell-like room, a young male slowly comes to consciousness. Every surface surrounding him is made of concrete; a muted grey under the dull shine of a single lightbulb hanging overhead. The cold floor beneath him sends chills down his spine. He feels a sudden burst of adrenaline, subdued by the ropes binding his wrists. His adrenaline is rapidly masked with an overpowering sense of terror as he jerks his arms behind his back, desperate to pull the ropes apart. He ceases his attempts as his wrists begin to burn. The man can barely remember his own name and he shivers, blinking wildly to adjust to the hazy lighting as the brain fog begins to clear.

Gavin. His name is Gavin. His last name is Free, but he feels quite the opposite.

He stares down at himself, trying to grasp the smallest piece of information that would jog his memory. He has holes in his jeans, some old and some new. His blue t-shirt brings a flurry of events back to his brain. His boyfriend gave him this shirt. _Michael Jones._ The last thing he remembers is the two of them, along with their crew, busting into an old warehouse with the intention to torch the rival safehouse to the ground. One by one, the names come back to him. _Geoff Ramsey. Jack Pattillo. Ryan Haywood. Ray Narvaez Jr._

He distinctly recalls getting separated from them and ultimately being knocked out from behind in the middle of a dark room. Everything else is a blur.

The back of his neck itches as he feels something wet trickling past his hairline. He cranes his neck and spots a small bloodstain on the wall behind his head. He knows he’s bleeding somewhere above his neck but he can’t determine where. The itch grows unbearable but he’s rendered useless, frozen in fear at the slow slide of liquid as it begins to disappear under his collar.

The itch is forgotten as loud footsteps echo outside of the room. Gavin scrambles to make himself smaller, folding up his legs and pushing back against the wall as far away from the lone metal door as he can. His heartbeat pounds in his ears as the sound gets closer. Right before his eyes, the handle turns and the door is pushed open by an unknown force. Light floods into the room from the hallway and Gavin ducks his head to shield himself from the brightness.

With bated breath, he longs for it to be Michael walking through that door. As a shadow is cast across his face by the large, heavy-set silhouette that is blocking the light, he is made gravely aware that the person is absolutely not Michael.

The unknown person takes a few steps forward, gradually becoming more visible under the lonely, dim lightbulb. As his face crosses into the light, Gavin peers up at the crease in his brow, the old scars littering his cheekbones, and the anger flickering behind his eyes. His mouth is set in a snarl with yellowed teeth glistening and slimey.

“Hello there,” the man’s rough voice rasps. Gavin freezes, unable to reply.

“You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?” He steps forward once more. Again, Gavin’s mouth opens but nothing comes out.

“See, I know that’s a lie. I know you’re quite the talker.” The man chuckles, bending at the knees to squat down until he’s almost eye level with the shivering male.

“I know what’ll get you talking.”

Gavin’s petrified gaze pulls away from the man’s face as a silver glint catches his eye. A knife is clutched tightly in the stranger’s left hand, reflecting the dim light. As his natural instincts and training kick in, Gavin makes a mental note. The man must be left-handed.

He slowly gains some confidence and gulps, opening his mouth to speak. “W-Who are you?”

The man blinks once. “You can call me O.”

“O…” Gavin tries the lone vowel. It feels bitter on his tongue.

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions, right, Gavin?”

Gavin lacks a suitable response and settles for a small nod.

“Go ahead,” O urges, “ask away.”

Gavin breathes deeply, choosing from the hundreds of questions scattered in his mind. At last, he picks the most important one.

“Why am I here?”

O cackles, loud and obnoxious. “To prove a point, of course! So your little friends know not to mess with us.”

Gavin’s heart seems to want to burst out of his ribcage at the reply. O towers over him once again, pacing around the small room as he begins to elaborate.

“You see, you’ve killed a few people that I really enjoyed being around. I let it go initially, mourned the loss, and moved on. But after the little stunt your crew pulled in our warehouse, I couldn’t simply let it go this time. If you wanted to rinse us all out, congratulations! You nearly succeeded. But here’s the thing, Gavin. You missed one. So, I live in exchange for you.”

The jackhammering heart inside of Gavin’s chest pulses through his eardrums.

“They’ll come and find me and you’ll be dead, too,” he snaps.

“You better hope and pray that they don’t come for you.” O turns his back and begins to walk toward the metal door. “After all, you need bait to catch a fish.”

He exits the room, slamming the heavy door behind him. The lock clicks in place.

  


**Day 8**.

Gavin lies face down on the concrete, pressing his cheek to the cold floor. His ribs ache and every minor movement sends jolting pain through his chest. He had been kicked the day prior by the angry man wearing steel toe boots and he knows he has at least one fractured rib, maybe more. He had been stripped of his clothes and given a small bucket in the corner of the room as a makeshift bathroom. The mere thought made him gag.

He has spent hours —how many hours exactly, Gavin’s not sure. He has lost track of time already — lying on the floor in silence. Multiple days have passed, but he still holds onto the hope that his crew will come and save him. He considers it a positive that at least he’s still alive.

The silence of his passing days are only broken up by footsteps down the hall and O making a daily appearance with an expired meal or a punishment. Other than that, he lies alone, cold and shaking in the boxed room. From the corner of his eye, he watches the lightbulb overhead as it flickers every now and then.

In the distance, he hears footsteps once again. As usual, O pushes the door open and stomps into the room. He pauses and glares down at the bruised man on the ground.

“You’re a weak sack of shit, you know that?” O reaches down and pulls Gavin’s arm, roughly dragging him into a sitting position. The pain makes him wheeze.

O gets down on his knees, trapping Gavin’s legs between his own. With a flick of his wrist he reveals a small knife, inching it closer to the restrained man’s face.

“It’s been long enough without any permanent damage,” he rasps, “but I want to see you bleed.”

Gavin winces as the man changes directions with the knife, pressing it down on his forearm until it breaks skin. Blood shines in the dim light, pooling around the tip of the blade as O applies more pressure. Gavin bites his lip, smothering a sharp gasp as the weapon splits his skin. O drags the knife downward ever so torturously, digging deep into the flesh until Gavin’s head is spinning and he feels like he’s going to pass out.

He has to stay awake. He wants to remain conscious, but the pain grows unbearable and the blood drips onto the concrete. Gavin's body betrays him as his vision begins to go fuzzy until he blacks out entirely.

When he regains consciousness once again, he can feel O’s heaving breath on his upper lip and the searing pain in his right arm. The knife is lying on the floor beside him, catching his eye as the room around him spins. Through the dizziness, he jerks his arms and tugs at the restraints, desperate to reach the knife. O grabs him by the shoulders and slams him against the wall once again.

Gavin braces himself for the worst, eyes shut tightly with his bottom lip pinched between his teeth.

However, the impact that he’s anticipating doesn’t come. Instead, he feels the rough touch of calloused fingers as they stroke his cheek. The contact reminds him of Michael and he immediately regrets making the connection. The boy at home would never harm him like this. He’s always so gentle with Gavin, despite the riotousness of their daily jobs. Michael has no qualms about gunning down an entire enemy force and rigging their homes with explosives, but he treats Gavin like his world with feather light touches and cautious patience when necessary. Gavin finds himself craving the touch, but it's the wrong type he receives.

This touch is so unlike the familiar comforting feeling that Gavin is used to and he recoils in an attempt to pull his face away from the other man’s hand. He only winds up hitting his head against the hard wall behind him. O continues to stroke his scarred fingers across Gavin’s cheek, feeling the harsh contrast where smooth skin meets a rough touch.

“I can see why Michael likes you, boy,” the man whispers, “you’re so pretty.”

Gavin is unable to fight the whimper that escapes his lips.

The man pulls back suddenly and before Gavin’s brain can even process what is happening, O has the knife in his hand again and slashes a long gash into unsuspecting flesh. Gavin screams as his other arm is torn into, overwhelmed by the burning feeling as blood rushes down past his tied wrists.

When he opens his eyes again, O is standing across the room and holding the door open. Gavin blinks through cloudy vision at the man.

“Next time, you won’t be so lucky.”

The door slams shut and Gavin is left alone once again with blood dripping from both arms and a racing heart that longs for the boy back home.

  


**Day 14**.

Gavin wakes up to the loud sound of footsteps. Over the last unknown amount of days, he’s received some more gashes and bruises to match the others. As he slowly but surely pushes himself into a sitting position, he feels the sting as multiple cuts reopen and begin to ooze blood again. Inspecting himself in the pale light, he peers down at the ugly scabs that litter his arms and legs. He tilts his head and rubs his cheek against his shoulder, feeling the raised skin on his face where another long cut resides.

During his short self-assessment, the footsteps stop before they even reach his door. He can hear the distant sound of a door slamming, followed by the steps resuming once again. He watches the door carefully, just waiting for O to enter. After a moment passes and the footsteps stop just outside his door, light from the hallway floods the room as the door is pushed open.

“I’ve got some good news for you, Gavin!”

Gavin stares up at O in confusion and fear. A shiver snakes its way down his spine as he watches the uncharacteristically enthusiastic man practically bounce on his heels. The words that come pouring out of his mouth make the restrained boy’s world stop spinning.

“Michael’s here!”

Gavin’s heart lurches as though someone started squeezing it. All of the air escapes his lungs in a hot _whoosh_ as his jaw drops. His face pales in terror.

“No…” he whispers.

“Yes, yes, yes!” O walks to the left wall and knocks his fist against it three times. “He’s right behind this wall. Isn’t it amazing?”

The condescending tone falls on deaf ears as Gavin stares at the blank wall in horror. His heart shatters as the shock sets in. His mind fabricates the image of Michael in the next room, tied up and bleeding out onto the concrete, weak and barely breathing. Gavin shakes the image from his brain, immediately replacing it with the belligerent Michael he knows and loves. He imagines the hot-headed boy pulling at his restraints and shouting expletives at their captor. Gavin hopes Michael has enough vigor to be the stronger of the two.

O pulls him from his panic. “I have some even better news!”

Gavin shuts his eyes tightly, just waiting for the man’s next sentence to tear him open once more.

“We’re gonna play a little game with Michael.” The eerie sound in the man’s voice strikes a chord of fear inside Gavin’s chest.

“A game?” he asks weakly.

“A game.” O nods. He reaches into his pocket and holds out a small, thin item. Confusion laces Gavin’s brain as the object appears into the light.

It’s a small flower. A white daisy, to be exact. It appears to be freshly cut from growth, with delicate icy petals and a bright yellow center. There isn’t a single blemish or imperfection in the common flower.

“Allow me to explain the rules!”

Gavin’s eyes remain trained on the daisy while O continues.

“There’s a game that young children play where they pick petals off of flowers. Do you know that game, Gavin?”

The boy in question nods.

“Well, we’re going to play that game.” A sinister grin splits his cheeks. “Would you like to begin?”

“No.”

“You're no fun.” O glares. “Fine, I'll begin.”

He reaches forward and plucks the first petal off the daisy, letting it fall through his fingers and float to the floor.

“He loves you.”

He plucks another. Gavin's eyes follow the white petal as it meets the other on the concrete.

“He loves you not.”

Repeat.

“He loves you.”

Repeat.

“He loves you not.”

When he gets down to the last couple of petals, O beams. “See, this is where things get interesting. Are you curious?”

Gavin suddenly feels as though he wants to vomit. His stomach twists into knots, trying to predict the purpose of this game. The closer they get to the last petal, the more his anxiety rises.

“Y-Yes.”

“Good! Here's how it goes. If the last petal falls on 'loves you not', I leave you both alone,” he explains, grinning madly, “if the last petal falls on 'loves you', I get to spend a little _time_ with Michael.” With his other hand, O pulls a familiar knife from his pocket.

Gavin's chest heaves. He watches in dread as the man puts away the weapon once more and plucks another petal.

“He loves you.”

Gavin's pulse races.

“He loves you not.”

His vision blurs.

“He loves you.”

The room begins to spin.

“He loves you not.”

He slams his eyes closed.

“He loves you.”

Silence. Gavin waits for the last sentence, the one that promises Michael's safety. It doesn't come. When he opens his eyes, he chokes back a sob at the empty flower.

Without another word, O smiles and turns to leave the room. Gavin lurches forward.

“No! Please, no, don't hurt him!”

The metal door slams shut and footsteps fade down the hall.

Panic and adrenaline send Gavin's whole body into violent shakes. He uses his legs, as weak as they are, to hurriedly drag himself to the other side of the room, against the wall separating him from Michael. He slams his shoulders into the concrete, cringing as the pain resonates in his bones. Screams rip from his throat until it becomes raw, gasping for air between every shout. He repetitively throws his body at the wall, painting his shoulders and back with harsh bruises.

He tires and pauses to catch his breath as the reality of the situation creeps up behind him like a nightmare.

This was all his fault. If he hadn't been separated from the crew, if he hadn't been taken, if he had tried harder to break out and find his own way home, if he hadn't been reliant on the hope that his crew would save him, Michael wouldn't be here. He wouldn't be sliced open and tortured by a goddamn maniac while Gavin sits helpless in the next room with new bruises blossoming his scarred skin. He jerks the knots around his wrists subconsciously.

He inhales and exhales shakily, trying to choke down the sobs that threaten to burst from his chest. He closes his eyes and is mentally taken back to a calm day a few weeks ago. He remembers the feeling of Michael's nose in his hair, the boy's soft breathing tickling his scalp. He remembers the taste of his own tea in the afternoon and the conflicting taste of Redbull on the other boy's lips. He remembers the sensation of soft kisses peppered all over his cheeks and the comforting sound of laughter as the two lazed beneath the sunlight streaming in through the window.

By the time Gavin comes back to reality, there are tears staining his cheeks and heartwrenching sobs choking his throat. He breathes deeply but nothing can bring him out of his dizzying agony. With as much force as he can muster, he slams his upper body into the wall once more, crying out sharply as his head makes contact with the concrete. As Michael's name falls weakly from his lips, his world goes black and he collapses against the cold floor.

  


**Day 15**.

The game continues. The flower petals finish on “He loves me not” and Gavin grasps for the nearly impossible comfort behind that phrase. He hangs onto the words in the dark and silent room. Michael is safe.

  


**Day 16**.

This time, “He loves me”. Gavin once again bashes his fragile body against the concrete wall until he can't take the pain anymore. He screams and begs and pleads so much that he can't make a single sound, his throat painfully raw and his voice empty. He breaks down, weakly knocking his back against the wall as though every small _thump_ brings him a little bit closer to the boy next door. He can only hope.

  


**Day 17**.

“He loves me,” again. Gavin regrets destroying his throat the day prior. He lies alone in the silence and is forced by his own deteriorating, traitorous mind to imagine Michael's torture. The silence hurts more than the screaming.

  


**Day 18**.

“He loves me not.” Gavin's shoulders sag at the verdict. He breathes a heaving sigh of relief as O exits the room, footsteps disappearing down the hall. He savours the good days, occasionally calling out to Michael and attempting to talk to him, even though he knows the boy can't hear him.

  


**Day 19**.

To Gavin's silent horror, today is another bad day. He lies face down on the floor, shaking violently as his mind fabricates the image of Michael being sliced into by their captor. He's entirely powerless and weak, suppressed by his own head even more than the ropes that bind his wrists. In the tense silence, he doesn't move for days.

  


**Day 23**.

Gavin stirs in his sleep and jolts awake suddenly as he registers familiar heavy boots directly in front of his face. With great difficulty, he rolls onto his back and winces, staring up at O as he towers over him.

“I have some bad news today, Gavin.”

Gavin feels his heart stop and restart again within his chest. A rough hand jerks him up into a sitting position, his back pressed against the wall. The purple, blue, and brown bruises ache from where they're painted along his shoulders like a violent canvas. Upon looking around the room, he realizes that everything looks blurry. O grabs at his chin to force him to make eye contact.

“Michael's gone.”

After Gavin has about four seconds of panicking, O continues.

“He busted out overnight. Must have managed to untie his ropes, the sneaky dick.”

The relief in Gavin's chest makes him feel like a desert in the middle of a rainstorm. It is as though he has been parched for so long and finally the sky has decided to open up and gift him with some concept of hope again. After all of the unseen pain and torture that he can't even begin to fathom, he is endlessly relieved that Michael is safe once more.

Unfortunately, O cuts his internal celebration short.

“He left you behind, you know.”

Helpless eyes meet a torturing gaze.

“He didn't even bother to try and save you. He knew you were in the next room and he left you here.”

Gavin hadn't even considered that fact. Dread and sorrow leaks into his veins as he immediately begins to consider reasons why Michael would possibly leave him behind. His heart pulses with longing and betrayal, his eyes flickering toward the door, just waiting for Michael to step through and come back for him. As the moments pass, he realizes that while it was a nice thought to have his own knight in shining armour, the fairy tale ends here. There's no knight and no courageous rescue. His only contact with another human is the man wearing the wicked grin right in front of his face. His only piece of hope escaped from a cell overnight and left without him. If Gavin had been defenceless before, he was hopeless now.

His eyes well up as he watches his captor pull another familiar daisy from his pocket.

“Let's play one more game, Gavin. The last one, I promise.”

Gavin shakes from head to toe at the mere word.

“You're awfully quiet. I want you to host this one.” O holds the pale flower closer to his face. “As I take off each petal, you say the words. Okay?”

With a weak scratch in his voice, Gavin replies, “Please, no.”

He watches as fat fingers pluck off the first silky petal. It floats down and falls onto his legs while he doesn't speak.

“Don't make me force it out of you.”

He clears his throat. “H-He loves me.”

Another one is torn off and he winces.

“H-He loves me not.”

The words leave his lips at the same moment that he finally understands the meaning of this game. Michael left him for dead, so he doesn't love him after all. Had he moved on already? Had they given up hope and stopped looking? Had Gavin even been missed in the first place? Maybe they were happy to get rid of him. He was a hassle, always bumbling around like an idiot. Michael had called him an idiot more times than he can count, but maybe he really meant it. Perhaps there was someone replacing Gavin already, snaking their way into Michael's heart. Maybe he couldn't wait to get back to them, which was why he left.

Theorizing makes him feel worse. The next petal falls and the subsequent sentence feels bitter on Gavin's tongue.

“He loves me.”

The game carries on until there are only a few petals left. Gavin tries to count them in his head and determine where this game will end.

“He loves me.”

Followed by, “He loves me not.”

Then, “He loves me.”

Gavin stutters as the newly bare flower mocks him, “He loves me n-not.”

“You're right, Gavin. I guess he doesn't.” O violently tosses the flower into the corner of the room. It disappears in the darkness.

Anger and betrayal fill Gavin's lungs with hot, smothering air. All of his emotions rush out of him faster than they arrived when he catches the horrifying glint of a pocket knife as it reflects the light cast from the lone lightbulb.

“Let's make that a bit more permanent, shall we?”

O doesn't hesitate with throwing him to the ground. Gavin cries out as his bruised shoulders collide with the cold surface. The man climbs on top of him and pins him to decrease his squirming with one hand while gripping the small knife firmly with the other. Gavin kicks and flails, desperately trying to pull away from the stronger, heavier man. O jabs the knife toward his face in warning and Gavin falls into shocked silence. His breathing is laboured as he feels the first press of the frigid blade on the skin of his stomach. Slowly and torturously, the blade begins to slide downward.

Gavin recognizes the shape of letter _H_ as his blood pools to meet the cool air. As the man continues with the subsequent _E_ , silent tears begin to roll down Gavin's cheeks. They trail and drop, leaving tracks in their wake and splashing onto the floor beside his head. The feeling of the knife carving into his skin is nothing compared to the emptiness and hopelessness that stabs at his heart. His stomach twitches with each drag of the knife combined with the overpowering weight of his captor, but nothing hurts him more than the fact that Michael left. Without any attempt to take him home, without any promise of returning, he left. Even a “goodbye” would have hurt less. He saved himself and left Gavin for dead. The drag of the knife seems to fade into the background as the physical pain lacks in comparison to the despair that seeps into his heart.

Through it all, his own mind betrays him. He can't help but hope that Michael is alright.

  


**Day 39**.

In the distance, a helicopter whirs. It hovers overhead, blades slicing through the air as it gradually decreases in altitude. The pilot bites his lip as he descends, despite having years of experience in using aircraft. This time felt different as there was much more on the line.

He touches down in the middle of a grassy field about a mile out from the target location. His boys would have to walk from here. He cuts the engine and turns in his seat, glancing over his shoulder at his four crew members aligned in seats behind him. He exchanges a single somber gaze with each of them and turns back in his seat once more. His crew members exchange similar looks, faces tainted with expressions that tell stories of gloom, despair, and anxiety. Neither of them dare to utter the word “loss”, but they all feel it.

They wait for the blades of the helicopter to stop rotating before jumping out into the tall grass. Their weapons are easy to access, some strapped to their backs, some tucked into holsters, and some gripped tightly in their hands. They don't exchange any words with the lone pilot nor each other as they stomp through the grass and away from the aircraft. They all have one goal in mind, one hopeful victory, one repetitive prayer. One heavy feeling of dread infects their heads like a virus.

They tread through the tall grass, trampling their own path between the blades that climb as high as their clothed shins. The extended field slowly breaks off into dirt and gravel as they get closer to their destination: a small grey warehouse in the distance. The building is innocuous to anybody who isn't looking for it. Hidden miles away from public roads, surrounded by forests on one side and a field of tall grass on the other. One of the crew members spots the only noticeable entry from ground traffic and crouches beside the tire tracks.

“Are they new?” another asks.

“Relatively. They lead all the way out there, toward an old unpaved road.” He points in the direction opposite from where they came. He stands again, cringing as his knee joints crack. The man grumbles something about being too old for this business, providing a small piece of comic relief for the others.

As they approach the only visible door to the building as a group, they run through their plan in hushed voices.

“Now, just because there are no vehicles in plain sight doesn't mean we won't meet resistance. If we do, we don't hold back. Nobody leaves this building until we've found what we're looking for.”

One of the members noticeably flinches but the others don't comment.

“Let me check in with our ride.” Their heavily tattooed leader presses an inked hand against the button on his discreet earpiece. “Pattillo, you see anything?”

A subtle crackle plays through all of their ears as the pilot's response is transmitted to each of their own earpieces. “Not a thing, Ramsey.”

“Keep us posted.”

“Same to you.”

They all hear a synchronized hiss once more as the communication ends.

One crew member, a baby-faced boy in a brown leather jacket that hides his body armour, gently elbows his boss. “Are we doing this loud or quiet?”

“Quiet, until we need to get loud,” Ramsey replies. “Haywood, you break the lock. Narvaez, Jones, you stand on either side. I'll stay behind Haywood. If anybody stands on the other side of that door, they won't have a skull left by the time they notice we're here.”

The men take their assigned places. Two of them, Jones and Narvaez, have sweaty palms, gripping their assault rifles a little bit tighter to overcompensate. Haywood takes a confident stride to the door, assessing the lock. He bites back a chuckle at the simplicity. Ramsey remains over his shoulder, taking his position and aiming his semi-automatic pistol at the metal door.

“Are we ready?” Haywood asks.

“Go,” Ramsey gives the command.

Unsurprisingly to them all, Haywood has the lock cracked in less than fifteen seconds and he kicks the door open with a hefty boot. He whips out his own combat rifle and aims into the darkness before Narvaez and Jones activate the flashlights attached to their weapons. Before them lies a bare hallway with not a single person in sight. They move forward as a team, precisely and confidently despite the unsettling nervousness that rattles inside their chests. The building is eerily quiet, the only sound being their own heavy footsteps and even heavier breathing. They count multiple doors lining the single hallway.

Ramsey sighs and whispers, “We branch off from here. Check each room and cover more ground. Every second spent in this place is critical.”

He receives four sharp nods and they each turn their backs toward each other, splitting off to stand in front of the first four doors. They each pull at a door handle and are surprised to discover that neither of them are locked. They push forward simultaneously, entering the rooms. Jones and Narvaez are met with bare walls, decrepit concrete floors, and nothingness. The rooms don't even contain lighting.

Haywood enters a disgusting bathroom, pulling a face at the dirt and grime around the toilet and sink. Cockroaches scatter around his boots. The mirror on the wall is tilted and littered with cracks, as though it once felt the impact of a strong fist. He can still see himself through the reflection. His signature skull mask stares back.

Ramsey is met with what seems to be a run-down office. A single wooden desk is pushed up against the wall, with pens and paper scattered across the surface. There is an empty spot in the middle, perfect for the size of an average laptop. He spots age old gum stuck along the edges of the wood and a knocked over chair in the corner. The room is otherwise spotless. He steps forward and shuffles around some of the papers, trying to spy any piece of writing. Jones joins him in front of the desk.

“Whoever was here last left in a hurry,” Ramsey mumbles.

Jones helps him in his search, picking up and flipping over blank pages before tossing them aside. “Who needs this much unused paper?”

Ramsey shrugs. He tenses when blue ink catches his eye, standing out against the pile of white sheets. He pulls the page out of the pile and holds it up.

“It's a circle,” Jones observes. Ramsey flips the page over but the other side is empty like the others. He tosses it aside.

All of the other sheets are blank. Jones aims his flashlight in a quick sweep around the room but they're only met with bare, concrete walls. The two exit the room and shuffle out into the hallway to meet Narvaez and Haywood.

“Status report?” Ramsey inquires.

“Empty, empty, empty, bathroom, empty.” He points to the doors to each respective room. “How about yours?”

“It's an office. Someone was there recently, too, but they must have left in a hurry.”

“Anything important?”

“Just a circle drawn on a piece of paper.”

Haywood bites his lip beneath his mask. “The person who left might not have _left_ , if you know what I mean. Be wary.”

His three crew members nod. They each enter four more rooms. Ramsey, Haywood, and Narvaez are met with plain walls and nothingness. Jones is met with a similar setup, except a single light bulb hangs from the ceiling. It flickers occasionally, showing it's age. He can barely see through the dimness and uses his flashlight as a secondary light source.

As the room illuminates, he has to hold in a gag. The light reveals the true state of the room. The back corner is covered in dark red stains, violently splattered against the pale grey. His stomach rolls in disgust at the sight. Peering into the room behind him, Narvaez smothers a cough behind his hand.

“That's fucking gross. It looks like somebody was executed. What's that smell?” He backs away from the doorway and back into the hall.

The bloodstains jolt something inside of Jones. The nervousness he felt previously is replaced with panic and urgency. He backs out of the room and breathes in the stale air in the hallway, desperate to clear his nostrils of the rusty smell of blood. He watches as his crew members try another three doors. He slowly strolls past them, stopping suddenly as a different door catches his eye. Compared to the simple wooden ones they had seen so far, this one seemed to be made of a heavy metal, possibly steel. He inhales deeply and twists the handle, pushing the door open ever so slightly. The stench that floats into the hallway is infinitely worse than that of the previous room. The dense, sour air sits heavy in his lungs as he uses his shoulder and body force to heave the thick door open.

When Jones enters the room, everything looks identical to the last one. Another lone lightbulb hangs suspended from the ceiling, flickering in and out. The only major difference he immediately spots is a small bucket in the corner along the same wall as the door. He aims his gun and activates the flashlight attachment, wobbling and nearly dropping to his knees at the sight the light reveals.

An all too familiar figure lies motionless in the corner. Small patches of blood stain the concrete walls and flooring. Jones dashes forward, adrenaline pulsing through his veins as he throws his gun to the ground next to the body. The metal clatters against the concrete and reverberates in the otherwise barren room.

He pulls the limp body into his lap, staring down in agony at a much too peaceful face. He cups the figure's jaw, smoothing his thumb down a scruffy, unkempt beard. He presses his hand to the figure's forehead, brushing long and matted hair out of the untroubled face. As every nerve in his body tries to restrain him, he moves his hand from muscle memory down to the person's throat. He presses in hard enough and pauses, holding his breath.

The relieved sigh Michael utters echoes in the silence when he feels Gavin's pulse. It's weak and slow but it's still there. He shakes the boy in his arms, taking note for the first time of the stark coldness of his body. His arms are contorted uncomfortably behind his back and Michael acknowledges the tight, rough ropes around his wrists. He shakes Gavin a bit harder, gripping his bruised shoulders cautiously, desperate to bring him back to consciousness.

“Gav... Gavin, come back to me, boi.”

After a few moments of wild shaking, Gavin jolts awake. Immediately he pulls back as far as he can, shying away from Michael's touch.

“Please don't hurt him. Please, please don't hurt him!” Gavin's cries split apart the silence. Michael releases the boy as though he's been burned.

“Gavin, you're safe, I'm here,” he whispers.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Please, no!” Gavin breaks off into choked sobs.

“Nobody's gonna hurt you ever again, I promise.”

Michael tries to hold the boy's spasming body still as he pulls out his pocket knife to cut the ropes that bind Gavin's wrists together.

“No! No, please, not the knife!” Gavin screeches, “Not the knife!”

Michael drops the object and shifts positions, holding Gavin's face in both hands. “Look at me, Gavin. Look at me.”

“No, God, please no!”

“Please, look at me!”

Gavin screams in protest, jerking out of Michael's grasp. In response, Michael pulls him in again, positioning the boy in his lap and pressing a soft, comforting kiss to his forehead. The screaming and crying doesn't cease and he scrambles his brain trying to think of something that would calm his petrified boyfriend down.

At an absolute loss, he pulls a tactic that he hasn't heard since he was a small child. He starts to sing.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey.”

He pauses as Gavin's hyperventilating continues.

“You'll never know, dear, how much I love you.”

The screaming stops, but the laboured breathing carries on.

“Please don't take my sunshine away.”

Michael gingerly strokes his face, smearing the mess of tears as they pour like a waterfall.

“I'm here, Gavvers. You're safe. I promise I'll never let anybody hurt you.”

He's not sure if it's the childhood song or the familiar nickname that snaps Gavin out of his terror, but he couldn't care less as his favourite pair of striking green eyes finally meet his own.

“Michael...” Gavin murmurs.

“I'm right here.”

New tears start to fill Gavin's eyes as overwhelming relief fills his core. His face splits into a tense smile as he cries, tucking his head in toward Michael's neck. His smile feels wrong on his face, as though he's trying it on for the first time. He realizes he hasn't smiled in over a month, and that alone makes his heart soar with happiness for the boy who holds him so tightly.

Michael cautiously grabs the pocket knife again, setting to work at cutting Gavin's wrists free of the ropes. They fall to the floor in a shredded pile and Gavin flings his newly released arms around Michael's neck, clinging with as much strength as his weak muscles can muster. It all feels like a dream and he's afraid Michael will disappear under his touch, leaving him alone in the dark once more.

As they embrace each other, the steel door pushes open. Ray and Geoff enter while Ryan holds the door with his back, remaining in the door frame.

“Sorry, we had a hell of a hard time getting the door open. It automatically locked once it closed behind you,” Geoff apologizes.

Gavin shivers at the sentence. Michael releases him gently and wriggles his own arms free of his leather jacket. He lovingly places it around Gavin's shoulders, hiding the scars and bruises and providing some warmth in the cold air.

They don't waste any more time before getting to work. Michael slings his gun behind his back as Geoff contacts Jack via microphone to inform him of the mission being a success. While Ryan holds the door with both hands, Michael, Ray, and Geoff work to assist Gavin in leaving the room. As they march down the hallway as a group, Ryan leads the way with his weapon aimed at the exit door. The crew returns to fresh air, putting the stale and decrepit building behind them. Gavin wants to kiss the ground and Michael would let him if it weren't for their need to rush.

In the distance, they spot Jack's helicopter exactly where they had left it in the field. Michael hoists Gavin into his arms and they break into a run, dashing through the trampled grass to reach their getaway vehicle. They climb in one by one, slam the doors, and Jack ascends into the late afternoon sky.

Throughout the entire ride home, Gavin stares motionless in one spot. Michael attempts to comfort him and rub his shoulders but the boy shrugs him off. He turns away, defeated, and Geoff catches his eye in the seat across from him.

“Give him time,” he mouths. Michael slowly nods, considering the words carefully. He had already lost Gavin for over a month. The thought of losing him for another second makes his heart ache.

Once they touch down on the helipad above their safehouse, all six crew members pile out of the helicopter. Jack and Geoff lead the way down to the main section of the house while the other four trail behind. Michael carries Gavin once again, walking cautiously down the stairwell and into their home.

“Set him down here, Michael. I'll fix him up.”

Michael follows Jack's instructions, placing Gavin gently down on the couch in the living room. Ray stands behind the couch, peering down at Gavin's weak face.

“Please don't bleed on our furniture,” he jokes. Everyone begins to chuckle.

The tense air in the house settles as they each realize that things are finally back to normal. Geoff cracks open a bottle of whiskey, Ryan cracks open a can of Diet Coke, and Jack cracks open his toolbox-sized first aid kit. Ray exits the living room as soon as he hears Jack mumbling about stitches, claiming he's squeamish around needles. Michael calls him a wimp and they all seem to relax back into some sense of normalcy.

Except Gavin, however. While Jack rummages through his large arsenal of first aid materials, he gives the boy a sympathetic glance.

“These things don't fix themselves overnight,” he says solemnly. Gavin's not entirely sure whether he's talking about the scars on his body or the scars on his brain. He takes it to mean both.

Jack slips his fingers into a pair of disposable gloves and gets to work. He gently begins to disinfect the more recent wounds and rub antiseptic wipes along the dirty scabs. He activates an instant cold compress and places it behind Gavin's shoulders, allowing the coolness to sink into his bruises. Gavin hisses and flinches at every single touch, uncomfortable under the stinging of the disinfectant. Jack certainly takes his time, starting from the top of Gavin's body and working his way down, assessing every single wound from minor scrapes and bruises to larger gashes.

Across the room, Michael watches from a distance. He doesn't want to hover. Geoff claps a hand on his shoulder and he jumps in surprise at the unexpected contact.

“Sorry, buddy. Didn't mean to scare you,” he apologizes. The ice in his glass of alcohol clinks quietly.

“It's okay.”

“Just give him time, kid. Neither of us know what he went through over the last month. He lost weeks of his life being locked up and tortured by some fucked up guy who wanted revenge,” Geoff explains. “Let him readjust to being home first.”

Michael sighs. “It's just so hard to stop myself from hugging him and never letting him go. I can't lose him again, Geoff.” His voice breaks.

His tattooed boss pauses, trying to collect his words. “Michael... In these situations, if victims of abuse aren't able to support themselves enough to heal on their own, they can deteriorate. Gavin could run away or, even worse, he could down a bunch of pills and end it all. He's always been reckless, and you and I both know this. Pair that with the trauma inside of his head right now and you've got a recipe for disaster.”

“So what, I should just abandon him?”

“No, quite the opposite. Support him now more than you ever have, but allow him to take the time he needs to repair himself. Rushing him will make it all worse.”

Michael opens his mouth to reply and question how Geoff knows all of this, but he's cut off by Jack.

“Michael, come here for a second.”

Geoff claps his shoulder once more and Michael parts from the man, walking briskly toward the couch. As he approaches Jack, the distressed expression on his face makes Michael's stomach twist and contort in nervousness. Without uttering a word, Jack gestures toward Gavin's stomach. More importantly, he points to the letters carved into the boy's skin.

_He loves me not._

Michael's face goes pale as his entire body begins to shake in anger. He gently takes a seat on the edge of the couch beside Gavin's waist, tracing his fingertips along the outside of the scabbed sentence.

“Gav... What did he do to you?”

Across the room, Geoff visibly shakes his head in warning. Michael ignores the action, too concerned about the boy below him.

Gavin clears his throat. “U-Uh. He played a game.”

“What kind of a game?” Jack asks. Half of him wants to know and the other half wants to retract the question entirely.

“He had this flower. One of those ones that kids play with. When he tore off a petal, he would say 'he loves you', and with another, he would say 'he loves you not'. T-The way the game worked... if it ended on 'he loves you not', you were safe. If it ended on 'he loves you'... he would hurt you, Michael,” he breaks down. “He would hurt you while I was stuck in the next room.”

At this, Geoff, Ryan, and Ray crowd around the couch.

“What do you mean?” Michael asks, looking quizzical.

“But sometimes,” Gavin ignores him, too wrapped up in his flashback, “I would build up enough strength to crawl across the room and just lie against your wall. And sometimes I would try to bust through that wall but I never could, Michael, I never could!”

His breathing is erratic and wild. Michael places a gentle hand on his hip, aiming to steady both Gavin and himself. His own heart rattles inside his chest and it feels as though someone is crushing his lungs. Beside them, Jack gives Michael an intense stare, laced with concern. The entire crew is stunned into shocked silence, trying to process Gavin's words.

He continues, “And then you left, Michael. You left me there. And then we played the game again and he did this to me.” He smooths a hand over the raised lettering carved into his stomach.

“Gav...” Michael can barely be heard over Gavin's heavy breathing. Jack holds up a hand to silence the concerned boyfriend.

“Gavin, you're hyperventilating. I want you to listen to me, okay?”

The boy nods weakly, squeezing his eyes closed as tears escape, leaving wet tracks down his face. They drop and disappear into the fabric of the plush couch.

Jack places a hand on his chest. “Breathe in time with me. Slowly, breathe in for seven seconds, hold it for four seconds, and breathe out for seven seconds.”

While Jack gives his instructions, Michael looks away from the makeshift nurse and patient duo and stares blankly at the floor. He can't understand it. Gavin's words don't make any sense.

Ryan squats down beside the couch, getting closer to him.

“Listen,” he whispers, “it's a torture tactic. You can harm someone with their own brain way more than you can with physical pain.”

Michael opens his mouth to speak but no sound comes out.

“By convincing Gavin that you were kidnapped too, this sick fuck messed with his head. With that flower game, he practically had Gavin choose what days ' _you_ ' were going to be tortured,” Ryan elaborates. “Gavin loves you, Michael. You two have been head over heels for each other since our very first task as a crew. Hell, we placed bets among each other on which of you would give in to it first.”

Michael cracks a weak smile at the thought of their first mission and ultimately the first day he fell for the intelligent guy with an attractive accent and wild hair. Back then, he had initially written Gavin off as dumb and useless, but something kept drawing him in. After only a few days of getting to know each other, their chemistry was undeniable and they've been inseparable ever since. From instant best friends to gradual lovers, their entire worlds revolve around one another.

“Imagine that you're locked up in some gross, cold room. The person keeping you there tells you that Gavin's stuck in the next room and that he's about to be tortured, possibly killed. You're tied up and you can't do anything to save him. How would you feel?”

Michael visibly shudders, staring at Ryan with his mouth open. He can't imagine how he would feel. Red-hot anger pulses through his veins at the very thought. Being trapped and unable to save the most important person in his life sounds like an absolute nightmare. Unfortunately it's a nightmare that Gavin only just came out of, entirely real and painful.

He turns away from Ryan, eyes once again landing on Gavin and Jack. The panicked breathing has decreased significantly and Jack mumbles soft words of encouragement to his patient. Once he feels that Gavin is relaxed enough, he gives Michael a subtle nod.

“Gav...” Michael starts, “I was never taken.”

Gavin winces, peering up at him in confusion. “W-What?”

“I was here all along. I was never tortured, I was never even harmed. I was here, at home, going insane trying to figure out where you were.”

A crease in Gavin's brow begins to slowly relax as he pieces this information together. “You... you weren't locked up in a room?”

“In our own bedroom for about a week, yeah.” Michael smiles faintly. “But these guys brought me out of it. Staying inside and moping wasn't going to help bring you back.”

Again, Gavin repeats, “What?”

“He was here with us the entire time, Vav. He was never hurt, not once,” Ray chimes in.

Air escapes Gavin's chest in an audible _whoosh_. Michael gently rubs along the side of his leg, staring down at his boyfriend in pity.

“You were never hurting me, Gavin. The only thing that hurt, the only part that _killed_ me, was the fear of not knowing if you were okay.”

Gavin stares thoughtfully at the ceiling while the others watch him patiently. He glances around at the sympathetic expressions worn by each of his crew members.

“It was all a lie?”

“It was all a lie,” Ryan confirms, nodding firmly.

Gavin breathes deeply and much calmer. Jack stares with a watchful eye at the rise and fall of his chest, eager to jump into position once again if the boy falls into another panic attack. The negative reaction never comes and the pilot-turned-medic visibly relaxes into his chair.

Geoff finally decides to speak up. “Who did this to you, kid?”

“He told me to call him 'O',” Gavin replies in a meek voice.

“O...” A chorus of Michael, Ryan, and Ray test out the single vowel.

Jack turns to Geoff. “Not many names start with O. Owen? Oliver? Any name that rings a bell?”

Geoff shakes his head as Ray adds, “It could be a last name. Tons of last names start with O. O'Reilly, O'Sullivan, O'Brian.”

“He wasn't Scottish, X-Ray,” Gavin says. The Puerto Rican gives him a friendly smile as he begins to see a glimpse of his old friend coming through once again. Geoff was right. Deep down, Gavin is still Gavin. They just have to give him time to heal and help him along the way. Normalcy would eventually return among them.

“O...” Geoff whispers the letter, wracking his brain for any connection. He turns to Michael suddenly. “That circle we saw. It wasn't a circle, it was a letter.”

Michael cautiously nods. “A calling card, maybe?”

“This guy left in a rush. He knew we were coming and didn't even attempt resistance. He had this entire thing planned,” Geoff explains.

“He wanted you to find me?” Gavin asks.

Ryan's eyes widen. “Remember the cell room door? It automatically locked once Michael entered. He wanted us all to go in like heroes, get trapped, and die there.”

Silence creeps among the group.

“You need bait to catch a fish,” Gavin whispers, echoing his captor's quote from a month prior. Nobody questions his comment.

“Well, we didn't die there. We're all here and we're all safe.” Michael subconsciously pats Gavin's thigh.

The weight of reality crushes them each like an anvil. The person who did this is still out there, roaming free. Each person in the room starts to imagine what they would possibly do to 'O' if they ever found him.

“We shouldn't spend another second thinking about this guy. He would want us to live in fear of him but we can refuse to do so. We killed his entire crew in their own safehouse so he's on his own now. If worse comes to worst, there are six of us and one of him. Not that it will come to that, but just in case.” Ryan provides the only solid voice of reason between them.

After a moment, Jack grins. “He won't get his hands on you ever again, Gavin. Right, boys?”

A confident chorus of “Right” fills the room.

  


Later in the night, Gavin is held tightly in Michael's arms, snuggled together in their bed. The curly haired boy exhales, his nose tickling Gavin's hair as his lips are pressed securely to his forehead. Gavin melts into the familiar touch. He had longed for this sense of solace to return for over a month. Every passing day deteriorated his brain and demolished his heart. He clutches onto Michael's arm, watching the slow rise and fall of the boy's chest as he sleeps. He seems so peaceful and Gavin wishes he could enter a similar state, just long enough to fall into a soft slumber.

His hope for sleep falls short as his eyes pop open wide. Outside of their window, he hears a sharp crack. It echoes into the silence of the night, resonating until it reaches his ears in their bedroom. He leaps from the bed and creeps cautiously toward the window, mouth open in horror.

A soft touch on his arm makes him shriek.

“Sorry,” Michael murmurs, wrapping his arms around the boy's waist from behind. He presses his lips to Gavin's bruised shoulders, trailing a gentle pattern of kisses up toward his neck and stopping next to his ear. Gavin's eyes flutter closed at the affection and he shifts some of his weight back onto Michael, nearly collapsing at the feeling of comfort.

“I can't sleep.”

“I know.”

“I-I think there's someone out there, Michael,” Gavin whimpers.

Michael presses a soft kiss behind his ear. “It's just the wind, Gavin.”

He slowly trails his hands down Gavin's arms, feeling every single raised scar and scab. Some minor compared to others, some stitched up thanks to Jack. Some that feel bumpy and others that feel smooth. Michael commits every single blemish into his memory by touching them in the dark. Every single ridge and indentation marks the painful reminder that Gavin had to live through this trauma. Michael blames himself for being unable to rescue him fast enough.

As his hands trail down further, his fingers ghost carefully along the scars on Gavin's abdomen. He traces the raised letters with his fingertips with an unnerving weight sinking in his own stomach. _He loves me not_. If it weren't for the severity of the moment, Michael would have had to hold back a scoff. Never before had there been a phrase uttered that was so incorrect. Michael presses his mouth to Gavin's hair once more.

Holding the boy tightly in his arms, he whispers, “I love you.”

Planted in the ground below their window, a familiar white oxeye daisy stands alone among a patch of green grass. Under the pale moonlight and aggravated by the wind, the flower shakes until it drops its very last petal.

 

**Author's Note:**

> smack that kudos button, leave a comment, or hit me up on [tumblr](http://jacktapillo.tumblr.com/) <3


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